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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635760">Spirit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timemidae/pseuds/Timemidae'>Timemidae</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bisexual Moaning Myrtle, Bullying, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Homophobia, Lesbian Narrator, Trans Colin Creevey, Trans Narrator, Transphobia, passing mention of the existence of pornography but no sexual content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:54:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635760</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timemidae/pseuds/Timemidae</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tales of the Hogwarts ghosts. Main story in the first chapter, followed by some bonus drabbles.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>OFC &amp; Moaning Myrtle, OFC/OFC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Trans Wizard Tournament 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The 2nd Floor Girls' Toilet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenomenalAsterisk/gifts">PhenomenalAsterisk</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi! </p><p>I haven't had to write to a deadline since college and I'm afraid that it shows-- I wanted to finish this with at least 3 days for edits, but instead I finished the first complete draft this morning. So, this is unbeta-ed and maybe a little raw still in the middle. </p><p>I hope you enjoy it anyway.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2013</p><p>“You knew stuff like this might happen,” I told myself, “but you decided that it would be worth it. It’s going to be worth it. You have Transfiguration in six minutes. You can’t be late on the first day. You’re strong and you’re valuable and you’re going to stand up and open the door and wash your hands and go to class.” </p><p>I stood and reached for the latch. </p><p>“My mum says it’s all Muggle rubbish. If they believe magic isn’t real, what’s to stop them from believing anything is? Not that I’m anti-Muggle, but, for us, you know, a witch is a witch and a wizard is a wizard.” </p><p>“Hmm, I think he’s just saying things for attention. How much more pathetic can you get?”</p><p>“Honestly, as if he wasn’t enough of a freak already?”</p><p>Amalthea, Isabelle, and Katarina. My hand froze on the lock. They knew I could hear them, I was sure. It wasn’t like any of them were actually using the facilities. Anyway, no one ever came in here to use the toilet. After the first few weeks nobody even questioned it: you skipped the vanishing step in the middle of the third and fourth floors in the West staircase, you didn’t go in the Forbidden Forest after dark, and nobody ever popped into the second floor girls’ toilet just cause she fancied a quick wiz. </p><p>Which, admittedly, was exactly why I’d come there. </p><p>Ugly laughter rang on the other side of the thin cubicle door, echoing strangely on the tiled walls and floors. The ancient pipes clattered and moaned, adding to the racket. I looked at my watch. Three minutes until Transfiguration. It had been my worst subject in my first year, and I was determined to get off to a better start in the new term. McGonagall was a stickler for punctuality – a stickler for most things actually. I wasn’t going to let Amalthea Burke tank my Transfiguration marks for this term before I even set foot in the classroom. </p><p>Mind made up, I pushed the door open. They went silent, pretending they’d only just noticed me. Isabelle Richards forced her eyes wide open in what I’m sure she believed to be a highly convincing expression of shock, while Katarina Koffman let out an affronted little shriek.  </p><p>“What is he doing here?” she asked Amalthea, in a hissing, mock whisper. </p><p>It was funny—I was angry, outraged, maybe a little frightened, but at the same time, I couldn’t help noticing how strange the acoustics were in that bathroom. Even as my pulse rushed in my ears, I heard their whispers rushing around me, reverberating longer than seemed possible. When I gripped the sink to steady myself, my fingers came away wet with chilly condensation. I’d been trying my best not to cry, but the world took on a filmy, reflective shine. </p><p>“Get ooooooooouuuuuuuuuut!” Something swooped suddenly down from above. A heartrending keening filled the world. I dimly saw Amalthea, Isabelle, and Katarina, between the door and me. They were trying to run, slipping and skidding on puddles that hadn’t been there a moment before. Isabelle was sopping wet all down the front of her robes, evidently having taken a spill in her attempt to flee. </p><p>I felt eddies of motion in the air above me, and ducked my head as a rain of icy droplets spattered to the floor. A grey, pearlescent shape sailed over my head, dove towards the little group huddled by the door. “Get ooooooouuuuuuuut!” </p><p>There’s no more dignified way of putting it: I scuttled for the door. </p><p>I stopped short. There were feet in front of me, feet where no feet had been before. Looking up, I saw that the feet stood not alone; a person had materialized directly in my path. She was young, about my age, wearing old-fashioned, round specs, and two long, neat braids of hair. Judging by her robes, she was definitely a Hogwarts student, and judging by the way I could see straight through her robes to the door, she was definitely a ghost. </p><p>I straightened, feeling a little sheepish. Peeves excepted, everyone knew that ghosts couldn’t really hurt anyone, any more than an echo could, or a reflection. The worst they could do was make you feel a bit clammy.  </p><p>Then, I met the ghost’s eyes for the first time, and stumbled back three full steps. I had never seen such burning, undamped rage. </p><p>As soon as I’d seen it though, it was gone. Behind the thick specs, the ghost’s eyes softened, then filled with tears.</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, “I didn’t mean you. I didn’t want to frighten you. I just… I hate… they,” she glared toward the door, “were being horrid. Ohhhhh,” she broke off into a wail, “ooooh I’ve ruined everything. I’ll bet you hate me now, don’t you? You just can’t wait to get out of here.” </p><p>“No, um, it’s okay. I, I’m very grateful. They were being horrid.” </p><p>She gave me a tiny smile, tears running down her cheeks. </p><p>“What’s you’re name?” I asked. </p><p>“Myrtle.” </p><p>“Thank you, Myrtle.” I said, “I have to go to class now, but I’ll see you later.” </p><p>And I did. </p><p> </p><p>I think she was waiting for me when I dropped by after class. It seemed she’d kind of, well, tidied the place up. The floor was bone dry, and the atmosphere had lightened itself up a bit. It wasn’t so cold, and the odor of stagnant water was conspicuous in its absence. </p><p>Myrtle was lounging in a windowsill, slouched in a posture that I could only call ‘deliberately casual.’ </p><p>“Oh, hello,” she called down, “you’ve come back.” </p><p>“I just wanted to thank you, for, you know, earlier. It was really kind of you to stick up for me. I mean, I wouldn’t have come in here if I’d known that I’d be disturbing your, um, rest.” </p><p>She dove from her perch and stopped short a few feet in front of me, just barely hovering over the tiled floor. Although technically there wasn’t any real color in her cheeks, or anywhere in the rest of her for that matter, I would swear she was blushing. </p><p>“Oh, it wasn’t any trouble,” she twirled a braid with her index finger, “I heard the way they were talking about you like you weren’t even there. That’s just…” The air grew colder around us, “just, mean,” she finished, dabbing at her eyes with a spectral handkerchief. </p><p>She looked me up and down. There’s no feeling of scrutiny quite like being looked over by a ghost, and a shiver worked its way down my spine. </p><p>“You’re not a first year, are you? You seem familiar, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” </p><p>I sighed, inwardly. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of being trans, or anything like that, but, judging by her clothing, Myrtle was kind of, well, old. And it must be hard to keep on top of current events, living in a disused toilet. I didn’t know if she’d even heard of being trans, and I wasn’t excited to have that conversation with a near stranger. Explaining things to my own Gran had been hard enough. </p><p>I took a deep breath. “This is my second year. It’s just that I used to dress differently, and wear my hair differently, and I only used the boy’s loo.” </p><p>“Oh!” she exclaimed, “you’re like Christine Jorgensen!” </p><p>“Who?” Of all the responses I’d been prepared for, this wasn’t one of them.</p><p>“Oh, she was a Muggle, an American. She was in the tabloids, ‘Ex-GI Becomes Blonde Beauty.’” </p><p>“Yeah, like that. Only, I don’t know about the ‘bombshell’ bit.” </p><p>Myrtle looked at me, “Nonsense, darling, you look marvelous.” She’d changed her voice, imitating someone I’d never heard of, I’m sure, but she was smiling. At that stage in our brief acquaintance, I already knew that that was rare. It was a nice smile, kind. </p><p> </p><p>After that I did some research. I had to ask the librarian for permission to use Hogwarts’ only computer. It was in its own little anti-charm bubble, and hooked up to its own little battery pack, so it worked on campus, after a fashion at least. The internet connection was terrible. We were supposed to be blocked from accessing anything even vaguely pornographic, and there were rumors that, if you managed to get around the blocks, there was a back-up hex that would give you incurable mermaid herpes. I didn’t think that was true, but I also couldn’t imagine who would be bold enough to look up dirty pictures with Madame Pince liable to creep up behind them at any moment. I was nervous enough following up on my perfectly innocent query.  </p><p>Christine Jorgensen was worth it though. Even in the flat and still Muggle pictures, she was incredibly glamorous. The Muggle moving pictures were frustrating—she seemed stuck, doing the same things over and over, but, even so, she did them with a confidence that I admired. I even found the article that Myrtle had referenced, the front page of something called the New York Daily News, December 1, 1952. </p><p>It was after that that I moved on to my other research topic. I felt a bit weird about it, but I was already in the library, and the yearbooks were all right there. I started with 1952. I wasn’t expecting to strike gold on my first try, so I wasn’t surprised when Myrtle wasn’t in it. I moved on, 1953, 1954, 1955. I’d worked my way all the way to 1970 before I had to admit I wasn’t going to find her. I started again, working backwards this time. My breath caught when I spotted her. She was standing with the other Ravenclaw third years, looking down and scuffing her shoes against the dirt. The other kids in the row had their arms thrown around each other, swaying gently into one another’s sides for the rest of eternity. Next to them, Myrtle looked horribly alone. I pulled down the next two volumes. </p><p>Myrtle first appeared in 1941, tiny, with wide, serious eyes. In 1942, she was taller and gangly, last year’s robes hanging a few inches too high, but she looks happy, smiling at something the girl next to her whispers in her ear. In 1943, someone has scratched out the face of one of the figures in the back row, and now it stumbles, senselessly, around the frame, while its neighbors look on in vague revulsion. Myrtle stands in the front, wearing new eyeglasses, and won’t look at the camera.</p><p>And then, in 1944, Myrtle was gone. </p><p>I guess I’d assumed there would be a special page in the yearbook, a statement from the Headmaster, something like that. Instead, there was just an absence, only jarring if you were looking for it. Three yearbooks, and nothing more. Except, I supposed, for the young ghost, sobbing in the WC. A young ghost, reading Muggle tabloids in the Hogwarts’ toilets? Maybe someone had brought them to her. </p><p>I felt a little dirty, after that. Not like I’d been looking at tits on the school computer, but still like maybe I’d seen something I shouldn’t have, opened an owl-message meant for a friend, that kind of thing. I was sure Myrtle wouldn’t like it if she somehow found out I’d been snooping into her life. After all, I wouldn’t want someone who’d just met me to go digging around in my yearbooks. </p><p> </p><p>I made a habit of dropping in on Myrtle between classes. It made me sad to think of her, all alone with the leaky pipes. She was touchy as anything, and her crying jags could be somewhat disruptive, but she was also pretty good fun. I left her copies of the Prophet when I had them, and she’d wait for me to help her with the pop culture clues in the crossword. Honestly, I wasn’t of much use. The crossword was written by a witch my parents’ age, and lots of the clues referenced musical groups that had last been popular years before I was born, but I tried. </p><p>In recompense, Myrtle helped me with my homework. Not deliberately, at least not at first. One day, I was trying to work on a Potions problem-set in the common room, when a group of fifth-years commenced with a riotous game of Exploding Snap. Understanding that I’d get nothing done if I stayed, I decamped to the library. Once there though, I noticed Katarina and Isabelle sitting together at a table in the corner. They kept whispering to one another and glancing at me. When I caught them, they looked away, but as soon as I returned to my parchment, they were right back at it. I set off again, thinking I could find an empty classroom, and found myself outside of Myrtle’s toilet. I debated its merits: there was nowhere to write, the floor was cold, it was plain weird to study in the loo. All this was true, but I had been looking for somewhere peaceful, and the second floor girls’ toilet was where my feet had led me. </p><p>I settled down in a dry spot, my parchment propped on a book in my lap. I wet my quill and got through a couple more sentences before I heard a soft hiss behind me, a tiny wince of a sound. I jumped, nearly upsetting my inkwell. </p><p>I don’t know where the rest of her was, but Myrtle’s head floated a few inches above my right shoulder. She looked thoughtful, squinting a little through her specs. <br/>“Are you sure that’s what you meant to say?” </p><p>“Yes,” At least, I had been. </p><p>“It’s only that I think you forgot to account for the change in density when you dry the boomslang skins.” </p><p>She wasn’t always right—some of the things she’d learned were almost comically out of date. I tried not to show it, when she let out some shockingly antiquated tidbit, but she could always read it in my face, and would accuse me of laughing at her. She sulked for a few days, after one such incident, but I think she felt better when I came crawling back with a poor grade on my Charms essay and a promise never to mock her again. If she was in a really good mood, for her at least, she would ask me to explain what had changed since she was a student. I obliged, as best as I could, and that turned out to be good review for my own classes.  </p><p> </p><p>In my first terms at Hogwarts, I’d always hated going to bed in the dormitories. Bedtime would inch closer and closer with each minute that passed after dinner, and dread would swell inside my chest. I’d thought I was homesick. Since I’d transitioned though, I’d realized it was more about the approach of that nightly sundering: boys to the right, girls to the left. The lonely hours of exile from the place where I belonged. </p><p>In my second year, in the girls’ dorm, in my bed next to my best friend, Marcia’s, I slept like a well-fed puffskein, at least when I wasn’t being bothered by insomniac spooks. </p><p>The first time I woke to find a spectral figure hovering over my bed, I only just managed to swallow my scream without waking the rest of Hufflepuff house. It was only Myrtle, reclining on her back about a foot above my bedspread, her braids floating gently beneath her, as though she was lying in a shallow pool of water. </p><p>“Myrtle? What are you doing here?” I whispered. It was June, the end of the school year, and I had an exam in the morning. “How did you even get here?”</p><p>She shrugged. “I’m not allowed to leave the grounds, but the toilet’s just my haunt—I don’t have to be there all the time.” </p><p>“Your haunt?” I’d never pressed Myrtle on the particulars of her posthumous condition, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t been curious. </p><p>“Some ghosts have them, some don’t. It’s just something, a person or a place, sometimes an object, that keeps you--- grounded maybe. It’s harder, the further I go from my haunt. The air gets thicker, or else I get…thinner, but it’s worth it, to get away from there.” </p><p>She shivered, and I noticed that she’d been trembling, the details of her form blurring and wavering. I’d seen her upset, of course, but never like this. I forgot my irritation. <br/>“Myrtle, what’s wrong?” </p><p>“Nothing. It’s dark in there. Creepy. Can I stay with you? Just for tonight?” </p><p>I didn’t think it would be fair to point out that she was the primary reason that everyone else thought the toilets were creepy. </p><p>“Sure,” I lifted the covers for her, even though I was sure she didn’t need them. I could see her next to me, but the mattress didn’t dip at all, and the blankets fell back through her. In the morning, Myrtle was gone, but she’d left my pillow was soaking wet. She came back a few times each year. I don’t think she slept, but I never minded her lying there with her eyes closed, pretending.</p><p> </p><p>The school year ended that June, and I went home to Kent, there to abide until 1 September came round again. </p><p>My first day back in the castle I went to see Myrtle. I’d grown a lot that summer, and I’d gotten my parents’ permission to start taking the potion that would help my breasts develop. Myrtle though, looked younger than I remembered. Or, rather, she looked the same as she always had. The same thin frame, the same old-fashioned glasses swallowing up the same wide, wet eyes in the same round face. I’d sent her letters, all through that summer, but she’d never written me back. I didn’t know if it was because she didn’t get them, or because she didn’t like them, or simply because she couldn’t grasp a quill, and didn’t have anyone to help her. </p><p>Once classes started I was busier than ever. I had new elective subjects in my schedule, and Marcia and I finally had permission to go into Hogsmeade on the weekends. I saw Myrtle less, and she gave me a hard time when I did, accusing me of forgetting about her, and trying, tearfully, to make me admit that I preferred my living friends to her, that I was embarrassed to be friends with moping, moaning Myrtle. </p><p>I told her she could come to Hogsmeade with us anytime she wanted, but she reminded me that it wasn’t allowed, and accused me of being insensitive. Finally, I brought Marcia to meet her, mostly just to prove to Myrtle that I would. Marcia was lovely—one of the things I admired the most about her was the way she seemed at ease around anyone, like she always knew just what to say. Myrtle was on her best behavior; she hardly cried at all, and she hovered at eye level so Marcia didn’t have to crick her neck to look her in the eye. Still, Marcia seemed tense the whole time. </p><p>Once we were alone, Marcia turned to me. “How can they let her live like that? She’s miserable.” </p><p>“Well, yeah,” I said; it wasn’t like I’d never noticed that. </p><p>“She needs help,” declared Marcia. I opened my mouth and she cut me off, “I know you’ve been a good friend to her; you’re my best friend, and you help me all the time, but I mean proper, grown-up help, counseling or something. Whatever happened to her, it must have been traumatic, don’t you think?” </p><p>I’d certainly wondered about Myrtle, but it had never occurred to me that anyone might be able to do anything for her. Marcia was clever like that—her parents were both Muggle psyche-olly-gists in Hull. </p><p>When I asked the Medi-witch in our infirmary whether or not ghosts could benefit from psyche-olly-logical counseling, she looked at me as though I had grown a second head, except not precisely like that, because I’m sure she would have known exactly what to do if I had grown a second head. </p><p>Next, I asked Professor Bell, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. I didn’t think that getting help for Myrtle would constitute a dark art, exactly, but I figured that ghost-therapy and necromancy were possibly not unrelated, so Professor Bell had a better chance of answering my questions than anyone else I could think of. </p><p>Professor Bell studied my face as I posed my question, then told me to sit down, and poured us each a cup of tea. She sat in silence a moment, holding her teacup between her hands and turning it in small circles on the desktop. </p><p>“The thing you have to understand about ghosts,” she began, “is that they’re not really people. A ghost is merely the imprint of a departed soul. Like a photograph, a snapshot of the way the original person was when they died. It’s true that many ghosts result from deaths that occur under violent or traumatic circumstances, and as a result they may certainly seem angry, or frightened, or sad, but it’s important to remember that the dead person isn’t truly there.” She met my eyes and smiled, gently, “Whomever it is that you’re worried about, I’m sure that they’re at peace.” </p><p>I wasn’t so sure. </p><p>Thinking through Myrtle’s situation though, both metaphysical and emotional, helped me take my mind off my own problems. </p><p>I’d noticed that the new crop of first years seemed to be avoiding me. I didn’t think that I’d become so cool that all the first years would idolize me or anything, but when 11 year olds I’d never spoken to started turning round in the halls rather than walk past me, I was certain that something was wrong. </p><p>As always, Marcia helped me figure it out. </p><p>“Phaethusa Greengrass,” she announced one morning at breakfast. </p><p>“Gesundheit?” I bit into a slice of toast. </p><p>Marcia gave me a look I swear she saves for me, one that says, ‘don’t play the fool, I know you aren’t one.’ </p><p>“Phaethusa Greengrass, she was sorted into Gryffindor last month, you were there. It turns out she’s Amalthea Burke’s cousin, Amalthea’s been feeding her all kinds of rumors about you, and in turn she’s been telling all her little friends that you’re some kind of shape-shifting sex maniac.” Marcia reached for my hand across the table, and I let her take it, uncomfortably conscious of the butter on my fingertips. I swallowed my toast with difficultly, mouth gone dry. “I’m sorry,” added Marcia, looking me straight in the eyes, “it’s all ridiculous, and cruel, and you don’t deserve this kind of shit.” </p><p>“You’re damn right, I don’t!” I tried to smile. </p><p>“Of course,” she teased, “I’m always right. And now that we know who’s behind the rumors, we can report them to their head of house.” </p><p>I didn’t quite have Marcia’s confidence that heads of house could make it all better. In any case, though, it wasn’t long before everyone had something else to talk about. It was flying all over the castle, “Amalthea Burke is a bed-wetter.” She tried to deny it, but everyone said there was an eyewitness, a ‘leak,’ the cheekier ones joked, from inside the dorm, who’d seen the wet spots herself. </p><p> </p><p>When I came to find Myrtle in her toilet, she looked more cheerful than I’d ever seen her, animated by smug glee. </p><p>“That’ll show her to say nasty things behind people’s backs!” Myrtle laughed, “I wish you could have been there.” She giggled and floated buoyantly toward the ceiling. </p><p>I let go of the little mental balloon on which I’d written, ‘benefit of the doubt vis-à-vis Myrtle.’ </p><p>“Myrtle, what have you done?” </p><p>She swooped closer to me and peered at my face. “I thought you knew.” A quaver had returned to her voice. </p><p>“Well, yeah, I guess I’ve figured it out by now, but why did you do it?” </p><p>“I did it for you, for your information. But no one ever appreciates nasty, dull, moping Myrtle.” </p><p>She let out a wail, then stopped and gulped, quite unnecessarily I supposed, for breath. </p><p>“Myrtle, please don’t take this the wrong way. I really appreciate that you wanted to help, but you can’t just go around dribbling on the sheets of everyone who bothers me.” </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p>“Well,” I took a moment to think, “for one, it’s not fair to do things on my behalf without asking me how I feel about them. I’m your friend; you should be able to talk to me about stuff that affects me, not just do whatever feels good to you. And then, there are probably plenty of people at Hogwarts who do wet the bed, or did when they were younger, and I’m concerned that you’ve run all those people over with the Nightbus just to get back at my bully.”</p><p>Myrtle wasn’t looking at me anymore; she picked thoughtfully at her chin. </p><p>“Besides, Myrtle, you could get in trouble.”</p><p>At this, Myrtle froze, and the temperature in the toilet plummeted. </p><p>“You wouldn’t tell, would you? Of course you will; everybody hates me, I don’t know why I thought you were different.”</p><p>“I don’t hate you, I’m just telling you because I’m worried about you, I mean, I don’t know if you’re technically still a student, but I’d hate to have the headmistress cross with you because of how you tried to help me.” </p><p>Myrtle sniffed, “you promise you won’t call the Ministry?”</p><p>“What? Of course not! What does the Ministry have to do with anything?”</p><p>Myrtle was crying harder now; I wasn’t sure if she could even hear me. “She deserved it though.”</p><p>“Amalthea sucks, I’ll give you that, no question.” </p><p>Unappeased, Myrtle wailed even louder. “Olive deserved it. She ruined my life. And then she goes, goes running to the Ministry. Poor little Olive, ugh.” </p><p>I took a deep breath of chill, humid air. “Myrtle, are you with me?”</p><p>She wailed, wordlessly. </p><p>“Do you want to talk about it? Here, sit down next to me.” I hoisted myself up onto a sink, leaning my back against the mirror. </p><p>Myrtle circled furiously above, raising a miniature waterspout in the basin next to mine, then slowly settled. She gulped and rubbed her eyes. </p><p>“Olive Hornby was my best friend,” she spat the words, “nobody liked me, even when I was alive, and I didn’t have many friends, but Olive was…” </p><p>She trailed off, and I pictured the girl from the photo in 1942, a little taller than Myrtle, with pin-curled bangs, the way Myrtle in the photo leaned in, pressing her ear to the girl’s cupped hands, watched her out of the corner of her eye. Oh. </p><p>“We were close, like you and Marcia are, you know.” Myrtle never had any color anywhere, let alone her face, but I’d swear she blushed. </p><p>Marcia and I? If Myrtle was saying what I was pretty sure she was saying, then she’d clearly misunderstood something. Hadn’t she? I put that thought aside. Myrtle was telling her story, and, even if I was still a little cross with her, the least I could do was listen. </p><p>“I thought she loved me, but then, someone found out, some dirty little sneak, and Olive,” Myrtle gasped, “she joined the others—she said I was a freak, and she only pretended to be my friend because she felt sorry for me, but I’d gotten the wrong idea. Who would want me anyway? I was ugly and spotty. </p><p>“She told me I’d have to be blind to think that there could have ever been anything between us, and then asked why I bothered wearing such ugly specs if I still couldn’t see anything clearly. And I went to the toilet so as not to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry, and then I heard someone come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. It was a boy speaking, so I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet” She looked up at me, repentant, “although in retrospect I couldn’t really have known if they were a boy or not, and it really wasn’t any of my business. Anyway, that’s when I died.” </p><p>“What? Do you mean to say this person cursed you or something?” </p><p>“They say now it was a Basilisk that used to live underneath the sink, and it was controlled by the evil Lord Voldemort himself,” Myrtle brightened a little, cheered by her passing involvement in storied historical events, “but all I remember is seeing a great big pair of yellow eyes, then I was dead. </p><p>“It took hours, but finally Olive found my body. And then I made sure that she never forgot me. I followed her all around the castle, and once she graduated. She went to America, to start over, but I was there. She went to Australia, but that couldn’t shake me either. I remember at her brother’s wedding, she’d thought I’d gone away, but there I was, in the punch bowl.” She laughed, hiccoughing through tears. </p><p>“Of course, after that she went to the Ministry to stop me stalking her, so I had to come back here and live in my slimy old toilet, and I’ve been here ever since.” </p><p>If you’ve never hugged a ghost, let me tell you that it’s a strange feeling, like trying to squeeze a damp mist. We managed it though, Myrtle and I—I think she was trying to keep her substance within the ring of my arms, and I definitely felt her icy cold fingers on my back. The stuff of nightmares, I know, but not for me, not just then. </p><p>“Myrtle, I’m so sorry.” </p><p>“It’s all right.” Myrtle grated the words out slowly, as though they were in a new language that she was trying to pronounce for the first time, “it all happened a long time ago. And I know now, I think, that she must have been lying, when she said that no one would ever want to be friends with me.” </p><p> </p><p>2019</p><p>The eve of our graduation. There had been a celebratory dinner in the Great Hall, and the Hufflepuff after party was still roaring when I slipped away past one in the morning, stealing a fire-whiskey flavored kiss from Marcia on my way out. </p><p>“Later, babe,” she grinned and called after me, “I’ll see you at the next do, shall I?” </p><p>The corridors were deserted, everyone either deep in the midst of their respective celebrations, or else already gone home for the summer. Despite the wide, empty spaces, the castle felt smaller than it ever had. That’s how you know, I think, when it’s time to leave a place. </p><p>Myrtle’s toilet was pitch black, and the air was thick, practically solid, with damp. It was silent as the grave. </p><p>For a moment my heart faltered. Where could she be? But then I caught the faintest bit of luminescence, leaking out of a stall in the far corner. I tapped at the door, but there wasn’t an answer. </p><p>“Myrtle, are you okay?”</p><p>Silence. I pushed open the door. She was huddled in a ball above the toilet, and hardly uncurled to look at me. Her cheeks were shining, coated with tears. She was weeping like I had never seen her weep -- without a sound, nothing theatrical at all. I don’t think she was enjoying herself even a little bit. </p><p>“I guess not. I was worried when I didn’t see you at the party.” I sat down with my back to the stall door, disregarding the damp that soaked into my robes.</p><p>“I’m sorry I put it off until the last minute, but I have something I’ve been meaning to talk about with you. Marcia and I have been talking, and she did some legal research, and, we were wondering if you, well, if you wouldn’t like to try haunting us, once we graduate? You could test it out for a bit, at least. If you don’t like it you can come back here and we’d never blame you. We’ll have to submit some paperwork with the Ministry, saying we were all okay with it, but Marcia doesn’t think we’ll have any trouble getting it through, and she’s studying law next year, so…</p><p>“What do you say? Are you as ready as I am to get out of this place?”</p><p>I held out a hand and Myrtle followed. Tears still slipped down her cheeks, but she was smiling all the way to the prefects’ bathroom. Marcia met us there, along with an assortment of students from all the houses, and nearly all of the Hogwarts ghosts. They cheered when we arrived, and arranged themselves under their hastily erected banner, “GOODBYE MYRTLE! BON VOYAGE!”</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Bonus Drabbles</h2></a>
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    <p>1. </p><p>“Studying hard, I see!” a jovial voice booms behind you. You whirl around, heart pounding, and the book thumps to the table. You’d had to request it specially from a library in Glasgow, and when you’d handed Madame Pince the form, you had thought you might dissolve. And now, Nearly-Headless-Nick is peering over your shoulder. You shiver. </p><p>“Dys-phor-ia,” he annunciates carefully, “what’s that?” </p><p>“It’s when, um, when your body doesn’t feel like it’s the way that it’s supposed to be.”</p><p>“Ah,” he smiles, “I understand.” He claps you on the shoulder. His touch is freezing cold, but you stop shivering. </p><p>2. </p><p>I hadn’t been working long as Hogwart’s new groundskeeper when I was awakened by an icy hand on my shoulder. “Oi, mister, you any good with a chisel?” Forewarned about the possibility of irregular hours, I roused myself. The ghost bounced along ahead while I followed with my tools. A dozen other specters were waiting in the graveyard, gathered round a headstone. I read: Corine Creevey, 1981-1998. “Make an L, there,” the ghost pointed, “nix the E.” When I was done, the assembled spirits cheered. “To the front, Colin,” called the ghost who’d summoned me, “It’s better now, ey boyo?”</p>
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